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Sophia offered just one quote immediately after Francis left, presumably before her PR agent instructed her on what to say and when to say it.

She said, “He’s running from what he’s done.”

Did that mean Sophia believed her husband to be the killer? Why wasn’t that testimony used in a trial against Francis? And why did she speak of him so highly—if she knew he’d killed that woman?

Henry jumped up to find his notebook. Still standing, he scribbled to himself, sketching out an outline for his next script.

He had a hunch the producers wouldn’t be able to resist.

Finally, he thought as he wrote scene after scene deep into the night.Finally, they’ll pay attention to me.

But just as soon as the dark thought had entered his mind, he rebuked it. He didn’t want to be power hungry like Francis Bianchi. But he didn’t want to hide in the shadows like Sophia Bianchi, either.

Chapter Six

Christmas Day 2024

Los Angeles, California

Sophia Bianchi put on a pair of brand-new silk pajamas and spread out on her king-sized bed with a glass of wine. With the click of a button, an enormous flat-screen television came out of the wall and began to play one of her favorite films,81/2by Federico Fellini. She believed that Francis Bianchi had always professed to love it but had never really understood it. She’d never accused him of that. Had she, she imagined he would have knocked her over the head.

Of course, Francis had only hit her once or twice.

It had never been enough to report him. And Sophia had always thought she deserved it.

Why did I think that?she wondered now, so many years later.

Henry Crawford—that dashing twenty-three-year-old man, the grandson of Bernard and Greta Copperfield—had left more than three hours ago. But Sophia couldn’t get him out of her head. Her blood had boiled when he’d suggested she waslying about who wrote the scripts. But whose fault was that? Wasn’t it Sophia’s? After all, she’d agreed to decades of secrecy. She’d given her creativity away. And for what? To fade into anonymity?

Not anymore.

But was it worth it?

Sophia’s phone lit up a few minutes later.

No surprise, it was Greta Copperfield, calling from out East.

Sophia had expected this call ever since she’d told Henry the truth. Telling him to keep it between the two of them was a game. She’d known it when she’d said it.

Just before she answered it, Sophia imagined the summer of 1985. She pictured herself and Greta on the back porch of The Copperfield House, drinking glasses of wine. She remembered how Greta had never considered Sophia to be a creative equal. Although Greta had never said it aloud, Sophia had felt it. She’d been perceptive in ways Greta had never known.

Sophia had hid from Greta in plain sight.

“Merry Christmas, Greta,” Sophia answered. She made her voice seem extra syrupy. They were nice old ladies now.

Ha. Yeah, right. They’d always be themselves.

Greta was quiet for a moment. “Hi, Soph.”

Sophia smiled and wiggled under the covers. Using an app on her phone, she turned off the Fellini film and let the silence press upon her chest.

“I wanted to thank you for watching over my grandson today,” Greta began.

“It was no trouble. I enjoyed it. He’s an intelligent young man. It sounds like his mother puts too much pressure on him, though. He mentioned that he only has three years to make it in Hollywood. Does she know what it’s like out here?”

“That’s up to him,” Greta said. “His mother set those parameters. But parameters are made to be broken.”

Sophia laughed. “You were always a rebel, Greta.”

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